The Secret History
by sangga
Summary: So who the hell is Robert Goren anyway? Not canon - practically AU. And WIP - yes, I know I'm going to regret posting this now, but I'll edit as I go.
1. Default Chapter

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Title: The Secret History

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Author: sangga

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Email: sangga55@hotmail.com

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Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own. Go Dick.

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Spoilers: Character details - everything before 'A Person of Interest' - haven't viewed any further. After that, it's anyone's guess. God knows this hardly qualifies as canon.

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Summary: So who the hell is Robert Goren anyway? _"I mean, I've known Bobby longer than you, but I couldn't give them any more details. In the army. Likes baseball ... Doesn't that strike you as even a little bit weird, Alex? " _Not really - except when your partner gets arrested for murder…

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Rating: R – language, violence, all the good stuff.

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Note: _"It all comes of trying to be nice to heffalumps."_ Actually, it all comes of rarely having any insights into the characters real lives or histories. I know we've been given a few tidbits now that explain a bit about Goren's life, but I wrote most of this beforehand, and anyway, I like the idea of both Goren and his earlier model, Holmes, having darker pasts. So here it is, the complete fantasy – the Secret History of Robert Goren, so bizarre it almost qualifies as AU. 

I have never been to Germany, and I only know the bare rudiments of police and Interpol procedure for a case involving fugitive apprehension, so apologies in advance for procedural/legal screw-ups. As far as I know, there has never been a US military installation in Munich – although there is one in Stuttgart, and other towns, and for other details regarding the American military presence in Germany in the 80's, I commend you to the embrace of Gregor Jordan and his film _Buffalo Soldiers_. Finally, heartfelts to my sister, Sarah, my partner in crime, for nitty-grittying the plot with me and keeping this silly flame alive.

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Note again: This is a WIP. And yes, I know, I'm going to heartily regret posting this at this stage. If you have any info that could assist in making any of this story sound more plausible (ie. Swiss police rankings etc) please mail me and I'll edit as I go.

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The Secret History

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'Se non e vero, e molto ben trovato.'

If it is not true, it is a happy invention.

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'Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamer in ilis.'

Times change, and we change with them.

**Last Day **

There's blood, loads of blood, sticky and slippery at the same time, and his hands are covered with it, it has splashed up onto his shirt cuffs, staining the white.

He presses down on the wound, he knows that this is the correct thing to do but he's not sure if it's helping. His mouth open and confused and horrified, breath shallow, he presses down on the rich red stain on her chest.

She moves, struggles a little beneath his hands. _I'm hurting her_, he thinks, but he's not sure if it's pain or something else that's making her move, and he has to press down on the wound or she'll bleed out.

Some sounds drop away, and some are magnified, and he knows that this is shock. He can still hear the echoes of the shot bouncing off the walls, and the sound blends with the fast clip-clop of shoes, and Lien is behind him, he can sense her over his shoulder, peering down. She drops to one knee beside him, and looks at him – his face white, his three-day growth, his hair in spiky disarray, his hands, pressing down hard, muscle bunching under his coat at the shoulders. She speaks, reverting to German, loud, too loud.

"I'm calling the paramedics. Just keep up the pressure." She surveys the scene. "Where's the exit wound? _Goren. _Is there an exit wound?"

He can't reply, he didn't check, he's stemming the tide of blood, he's confused. It's only the second time she has called him by his real name.

Lien stands up to use her phone, moves a few steps away and fades out.

He's pressing down, and he can hear a burbling wheezing sound, magnified. It's the sound of air escaping through liquid. This is when he realizes that the bullet went through her lung. _Of course it did, it's a chest wound. _The burbling sound is blood in her lungs. She's drowning in her own fluids.

He hears another gasping noise, and he sees her lips move, and understands she's talking. _Just lie still, lie still, don't talk, you'll make it worse_. But she's still talking, a bare guttural whisper, almost to herself. And he leans forward, wants to pat her arm reassuringly but all his hands are occupied.

"Alex, the medics are coming, just lie still, it's okay."

She's got her eyes open, fixed skyward, and she's still whispering, he can't get her to understand, and when he stops for a second he can hear her, and her voice has a ghastly sucking quality and her words freeze him, paralyze him.

And she's whispering, over and over, _"Don't run. Don't run. Bobby, don't run…"_

****

2. First Day. A normal day. Just like any other day…

" ... and the ADA wants the paperwork by Thursday or he's gonna ream me a new one."

"Sure, Captain. I hear you."

__

With one ear. Alex Eames is balancing a coffee cup in one hand and a case file in the other and Deakins has trailed her all the way from the ladies restroom. She hasn't made it to her desk; she hasn't even managed to take off her jacket yet.

A deep voice coming from behind and above makes her grin, and don't let the boss see that or God help us all.

"Thursday, you say? That's the day after Wednesday, right? Eames, is that for me?"

She angles her head and executes a turn, dumping the case file onto her desk and passing Goren the cup over Deakins' shoulder. Her superior gives her a look, which she ignores, her eyes focused on her partner.

__

Never spilled a drop.

"Here. Don't say I never give you anything. And yes, sir," --her gaze returns to Deakins, nodding, all seriousness -- "the paperwork will be done by Thursday." _Now please get off my back._

Deakins stares from Eames' gravity to Goren's bland expression, and with the look of a man who feels like he just doesn't get the joke, turns on his heel and leaves.

Which leaves Goren standing in front of her, a slow grin threatening to spill over into full-blown laughter. Alex rolls her eyes and perches her butt on the desk, one foot up on her chair.

"'Day after Wednesday' my ass. Leave the poor man alone."

"Pity? Now, we have pity?" Bobby tries to subdue the grin, but it won't leave him be. He takes a sip of java and tips his cup towards her. "You haven't even taken off your jacket."

__

Score one for Mr Powers-of-Observation. Alex reaches for the case file and a wry look.

"Yeah, and you've already stolen my coffee. You're just cocky 'cause we stitched that last one up so quick."

Bobby slides his coat off his arm - he's managed to take off _his_ jacket, at least - and onto the back of his chair with a theatrical flourish.

"Oh no, that was _your_ work. You found the videotape - we wouldn't have had a case without it."

He gives her a generous nod as he settles the cup beside his papers. Alex smiles, feeling a blush of self-congratulation.

"Yeah, how about that. Well-" --she glances over with a grin, and raises a hand -- "hit a sista back then."

Goren reaches - it isn't much of a stretch - and hi-fives her. He's smiling again.

"Congratulations, Detective Eames."

"Back at ya, Detective Goren."

Two-second revels: after that it's on to the next case. Alex is used to it. Mostly, those two seconds are worth the effort - plus the satisfaction of closure, and sometimes, with a clever perp, the ego-massage that comes from out-manouvering someone who thought that they'd had it in the bag.

Not the last case - that guy had been just plain dumb.

She looks over at Goren.

"You still owe me coffee."

He nods, distracted by his own thoughts, already mentally divvying up the paperwork.

"Done. Now, if you take the written notes and give me the -"

His voice tails off, and Alex sees his face change. He is staring at the entrance area fixedly. Alex's first thought is that he looks ... shocked. Then his expression shifts to one that Alex can't ever remember seeing before. Whatever it is that has him spooked-

Alex twists around, rising from the desk.

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Not a 'what'. A 'who'.

A woman stands just inside the entrance area, advancing a step as Alex observes. She is tall, wiry-slim, with a strong, handsome face and black hair cut short into a severe bob that swoops down one side to her jawline. Her dark jacket and pants look tailored, expensive lines over a practical white tank. And her eyes are glued to Goren, with a look of great seriousness and a little melancholy. He is returning her gaze, a ghost of a smile sitting uncomfortably amidst a general ... sadness.

Alex is already frowning at the tableau.

__

What the frickin' hell is this?

The woman walks towards them, but speaks only to Bobby.

"Hello, Detective Goren."

Alex narrows her eyes - an accent there, distinct if not pure. German, with a hint of long time spent in British language classes. Alex looks between Bobby and the woman but he isn't giving her any clues, just wearing that damn sad, resigned smile.

"Hello, Sandy."

Alex is about to start getting pushy, but Sandy takes the initiative, giving Goren wry encouragement.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Bobby nods gravely.

"Of course. This is my partner, Alex Eames. Alex, this is Detective Constable Inspector Sandrine Lien. She works with EU Interpol on Special Case."

Alex tries to keep the confusion off her face as she shakes hands with Lien in the strong way that professional women do.

"Hi, nice to meet you. Interpol - wow. You're a long way from home."

Lien smiles tightly.

"Well, I had to go a long way for special circumstances." Then she pauses, and stares back at Goren. "How would you like to do this, Gellen?"

Alex is blinking as Bobby sighs gently. Suddenly the expression he'd had before, the one she hadn't been able to put a name to, strikes her hard.

__

Scared. He looks scared.

"What did you call him?" Alex's voice seems harsh - even to her own ears - where Bobby's is strangely small and even.

"The usual way, I guess."

Then Sandrine Lien is reaching behind for her cuffs, and Bobby has turned and crossed his wrists acquiesingly, and Alex feels both her jaw and her stomach drop as Lien begins intoning.

"Gellen Boromin, I arrest you under the Memorandum of Understanding Cooperation Agreement with the Organization of American States ... "

People are staring. Alex reacts immediately.

"What the fuck is _this_?"

" ... to be charged under European Union Law with murder, in the first degree; with escaping and evading arrest; with possession of fraudulent documents; and with other charges outlined in the warrant to be provided to you. Anything you say may be used against you ... "

Alex is gaping like a fish, until her instincts kick in and she moves to intervene, talking hard and fast and moving at the same time.

"You can't arrest him for _murder_ – he didn't _do_ anything." Her hands flap around near Lien's hands, and the cuffs. "Don't – look, don't do this, this is _wrong_ –"

A firm glance from Lien warns her off. Alex's expression is aghast, confusion and anger spinning her around, trying to make eye contact with somebody, anybody.

"_Somebody call Deakins_."

Lien is still droning.

" ... You have the right to a legal brief. If you cannot provide one for yourself, one will be provided ... "

And as Lien turns Goren and starts to lead him away towards a short row of besuited cops at the squad room entrance - him, bear-like, tall, towering over the German woman, still dignified, face closed off now - he looks at Alex for a long-short moment and damnit she _knows_. Can't help but know. It's right there, behind his eyes, the resignation, the apology.

Whatever it is he is being arrested for, he's done it.

And Alex is left blinking at the empty space where her partner had been.

****

3. Still the First day.

Alex sits at her desk, biting the inside of her thumb, watching the door to Deakins' office and feeling like she has the plague. Eyes in the squad room glance towards her and veer away.

There'd been some serious uproar. Deakins had marched into the squad room breathing fire and had been ushered into his own now-curtained office by one of the suits, a tall blonde guy, who tried to keep the peace until Sandrine Lien's return half an hour later.

Half an hour had been a long time.

Alex had tried barging in behind Lien and her small entourage, and had been promptly rebutted by the same tall Aryan with the linebacker shoulders. Then she'd tried again when Deakins' superior had high-tailed it in. Same response.

Now it is two hours later, and she is Extremely Pissed. The only thing keeping her from pacing is knowing how it would look. Instead, she sits in front of her last-case reports, the Thursday ones, reading about a word a page.

Finally, movement. The office door opens, Mconaghey from State Crime leaves, and the Eurocops all file out. Detective Lien is last in line - Alex catches her eye grimly. There's a pause when Lien appears about to approach her, but then she seems to think better of it and simply nods and walks off.

Deakins is holding the door wide - Alex is already talking loud before he has a chance to close it after her.

"Excuse me, sir, if I say that was a bit fucking _unprofessional_."

Deakins is looking worn and harrassed – he's still wearing the suit jacket he put on for the Eurocops, but he loosens his tie in Alex's presence. His flat tone meets hers head-on.

"I'd say that's fair, Eames, but it wasn't my call."

She rolls her eyes, hands on hips.

"It wasn't your _call_? – don't give me that 'not my call' crap, please. He's my _partner_. This is bullshit – they arrest him for _murder_, and I don't even get a freakin' look-in..." 

She halts mid-tirade, takes a breath, leans on his desk. The suspense of the last two hours has worn the edges of her energy a little thin.

"Just tell me that this is all some giant fuck-up. Just tell me...tell me that."

In the pregnant pause, Deakins meets her eyes and Alex gets cold.

"It's not a fuck-up," she whispers.

"It's not a fuck-up," Deakins echoes, and looks old all of a sudden. Alex can see him in twenty years. Liver spots. Wrinkles. He sighs out and looks down.

"It's not a fuck-up. It's a highly-organised, long-term murder investigation. It's…it's…" Words fail him. "Jesus…"

She feels her toes go numb and sinks into a chair. The look on the Captain's face should be evidence enough, but she's still too shocked to stop herself from muttering.

"It's a mistake. This can't be right, this…it's a mistake, isn't it? They got the wrong guy –"

He faces her then, mouth a grim line, shaking his head.

"No, Alex, it's not a mistake. They've got shots of Goren taken from all over the place for about the last fifteen years."

"But couldn't -"

Deakins snaps.

"Alex, I _saw_ it, okay? I _saw_ it. It's not a close resemblance, it's not his twin brother - it's _him_." But railing at her is not only pointless, it's counterproductive. He swallows and tells what he knows. "Real name - Gellen Damir Boromin. He's a Ukraine national, Alex, naturalized in '67. His passport, his papers, everything on his police entry file - it's all fake."

He pushes papers in a manila folder across his desk in her direction, but she doesn't pick them up, just stares at them. She wants to say 'I don't believe you', but somewhere in her brain her father is talking again, telling her to deal with it. _Move on, girl. Just accept it and move on. Deal with it. The best way to handle a problem is to deal with it._

She closes her eyes for a second, fights every atom of disbelief in her, opens her eyes. She's dealing.

"Okay." Her voice comes out raspy. "Okay. Tell me."

Deakins has been watching her; the progress of her insides on her face has been frightening. But at least now she doesn't look like she's about to self-combust, which is encouraging. He sits down across the desk from her.

"That file is all I got. It's just the basics – Goren's real name, a few background details, the charge sheet, list of names on the case. Don't let it leave the office."

She's trying to think fast. "If I take copies will you look the other way?"

"I didn't hear you say that, but yes." He avoids her eyes – see the old magician's trick; you look at my right hand while my left hand makes the rabbit disappear, and then even _I_ don't know where it went. He continues smoothly. "And don't bother checking the database. The Eurocops have got an eyes-only lock on it. You want information come to me, I promise I'll pass on everything I get. But you try hassling Mconaghey and I guarantee you'll get your fingers burned."

"A few burns I can handle," she mutters, but he rides on over the top of her.

"I _mean_ it, Eames – you try shaking down State Crime and they'll kick your ass all the way back down to traffic division." He softens his tone, tries placating. "Just let me see what I can do first. Maybe we can find a way to tidy up this mess. At least I should be able to get you permission to communicate with Bobby."

At the mention of her partner's name, Alex sits up.

"Where is he?"

Deakins has an elbow on his desktop, and leans against it tiredly.

"They've given him his own cell in county."

"I want -"

"You _can't_ see him, Alex. Not yet, anyway."

Alex is gathering her wits now. _The best way to deal with a problem is to deal with it._

"Then I want to talk to that detective, Lien."

"Alex -" Deakins' tone is mollifying. "_Please._ Just let me get a handle on all of this first. I've got meetings with the brass and with the Europolice this afternoon - let me talk to them, see if I can get some more answers."

Alex stands, feeling her face set.

"Is that all you got for me? Sit tight and hold my water while my partner bounces off the walls in county?"

Deakins feels the energy in the room beginning to spin, and puts the screws on.

"_Yes._ And don't cross me on this, Detective, because my orders come from a hell of a lot higher up and right now, they're telling me to keep you on a leash." He throws in his hand. "You're on leave – and that's from above. You got time, and freedom to move, and you can get what info you need from me, so I suggest, Detective, that you keep your shit together and play your advantages."

She's jacked off. Extremely Pissed.

"Thanks. I'll take it under advisement."

She whirls and takes the few steps to the door. Deakins' cautioning voice turns her around.

"Eames ... they want to question you. Don't go too far away."

__

And that's an order, Detective. Alex is struggling to contain her fury. Fighting the urge to take Deakins by the shoulders and give him a good hard shake, she channels her energy into wrenching open the door and stalking out.

****

4. Same time.

The New York State County Jail is a curlicued sandstone edifice which has been the subject of extensive internal refurbishment. The protected-inmates cells fell under the scope of the renovations and now, instead of mortared cinder block, the walls are a matte-grey rendered concrete. Intrinsically dull viewing.

When you enter the jail, they take your clothes, your possessions (including rings, watches, pocket handkerchiefs) and your fingerprints. Robert Goren is examining the blue-stained pads of his fingers in the low light.

__

Left hand. First is a whorl, Index is a whorl, Ring is a crescent, Fourth is a whorl. Thumb is a crescent.

Right hand, same. First and Index patterns disrupted by thin scar tissue (that's a knife - got that in Narcotics).

They won't get anything off his prints. He's given them to forensics a hundred times - they get everyone's prints when investigating a crime, to clear evidence recovered at the scene.

The paperwork on Robert Goren is very complete. It was extremely expensive and it's regularly updated. Now if you know what to look for, if you cross-reference through army and juvenile records ... 

He examines his hands.

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"Your life-line is strong."

He hears his grandmother's voice, in the Old Language.

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"See this line - it is very deep. It starts at the bottom of the Ring finger - this means that your future work will use your creative energy."

He closes his eyes and feels a bony hand ruffle his hair softly.

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"You have a talent you can harness, Gellen. It will bring you good fortune, but you must teach it discipline. Ah, my mischka, you are a sweet boy, a clever boy. You take after your mother."

Bobby opens his eyes, looks at the cell around him, and shivers.

****

5. Later.

Every detective worth her promotion makes a few politically-advantageous connections over the course of her career. Judges, attorneys, police brass - it's nice to know you've got friends. But by Alex's reckoning, by far the most fruitful contact she has ever made is with Louise in Reception.

"Hey, Louise, you there?"

"Yeah, it's me - Alex, gimme a second, I gotta redirect a call."

"Sure."

A soothing classical interlude, and then Louise's broad nasal twang returns.

"Hey, hon, how's stuff?"

"Yeah, well, y'know. I been better."

"So I hear. Gossip machine works overtime in this joint."

"You're tellin' me. I gotta ask a favour, Lou."

"Whatcha need?"

"Did you check through a Eurocop this morning, name of Lien?"

"That's L-I-E-N, right?"

"That's the one. Look, Deakins wants me to courier some paperwork her way, but I got no contacts apart from her cell, and I'm not getting anything off that but this German messagebank ... "

There's a throaty chuckle down the line.

"Sure, honey, I get ya. But there's no follow-up addy here, just a phone number. Got a pen?"

__

Alright. Alex gives a mental cheer and scribbles down the number. There's a little guilt there, for spinning Louise a long one, but at least if this ever gets backtracked, it'll keep the receptionist out of trouble. And Alex has a feeling that Louise understands the score anyway - you can't tell what you don't know. She hopes her grin comes through in her voice.

"You're a doll, Louie."

"You're welcome, hon. Take care now."

"I try."

Alex disconnects and then waits for the tone before dialling another internal number. It's nearly the end of the working day. If she's trying to cover her ass then there's someone else she needs to talk to.

****

6. Later still. About seven.

"Hi there."

"Hey. Thanks for coming. You want a drink?"

Alex tinkles the ice in her glass in invitation as Alexandra Cabot dumps her briefcase and document wallet on the benchseat of the booth. The lawyer is still wearing her glasses and she looks weary.

"After a day like today? - definitely." She snags the attention of one of the bar staff. "Could I get a Scotch on ice? No water."

Cabot folds herself gracefully into the booth and checks Alex out with a genial eye.

"You look about as tired as I feel."

Alex shrugs and nods towards her.

"Take your shoes off under the table - I did. It really helps."

Cabot grins, transfers the grin to the waiter as her drink materializes.

"Ah. Thank you. This should help too, I think." She sighs after the first sip. "Mm. Better."

Alex harnesses her tension and eyes the lawyer.

"I never figured you for a Scotch kind of gal. I was thinking maybe the agreeable house white ... "

Cabot purses her lips over a smile.

"You spend enough time in chambers with the boys and you find that, as a rule, the only thing on offer is what's in the decanter. So you can have Scotch and water, or Scotch and water, or there's always ... "

"Scotch and water." Alex grins. "Yeah, I get that."

Cabot settles back with her glass.

"So - this is nice and social."

__

Business first. Alex likes that about Cabot - the ADA is always direct.

"Well, I didn't want the whole building to find out that we'd been talking, so ... "

"So here we are. Does Deakins know you're speaking with me?"

Alex smiles thinly. Cabot nods.

"Guess not." Her expression becomes spartan. "You know, I really shouldn't be touching this at all. I shouldn't be touching this with a ten-foot pole."

"I know."

"Do you? Because if this goes through to the Attorney General I could end up speaking for the state. I could get some serious heat just from discussing this with you."

Alex levels her gaze. "But here you are. And I'm not asking you to switch sides. I just need some legal advice, okay?"

Cabot considers for a long moment, then sighs and nods.

"Sure. Okay. Well, in that case you better fill me in. I haven't got any information except that Goren's been arrested."

"Well, you got about as much as me," Alex sits back a little to give herself room to elaborate. "The Eurocops picked him up this morning, right in the middle of the damned squad room. Minimum effort, maximum impact. Would've thought they'd go through Internal Affairs, but they didn't fill in Deakins, or even inform Mconaghey, way it looked to me. They must have been scared Goren would spook."

"Wait. Arresting officer?"

"Detective Constable Inspector Sandrine Lien. Looks like an Interpol headhunter."

Cabot narrows her eyes as she wipes condensation off her glass with a tapered thumb.

"Hm. I can't tell you much about Interpol protocols until I check the books." She looks up. "What else?"

Alex shakes her head, feeling betrayed by the lack of details.

"I got the article numbers of the arrest, and a few bits and pieces about Goren's alleged history." She winces at the memory of Bobby's face, Deakins' revelations. "They say he's a foreign national. Immigrated in '67 - he must have been young. All the early files would be under the name of Gellen Boromin."

For the first time, Cabot looks surprised.

"Robert Goren is an alias?"

"Apparently so." Alex's face is bleak. She pushes a single piece of paper in the lawyer's direction. "Here's everything I managed to get. I need to know what the other charges are, and then what to do about it."

"Well, if it's under European jurisdiction..." Cabot looks skeptical, examines the paper - then her face blanches in shock. Her eyes snap up. "This priority charge is for murder."

"Yeah," Alex says, slow and heavy.

"Is this right?"

"This is what I got."

"Then they may want to extradite. They have the right to extradite ... Jesus, Alex ... " Cabot removes her glasses, rubs her temple, looking like she's felt the world shift on its axis.

Alex appreciates the sentiment, but right now she's burdened by the need to act.

"What about the other stuff?"

"I-I have to check. It depends on the nature of the alleged offences. He might not face court in America, Alex. Give me a chance to do a full search." Cabot tucks the paper into her document wallet.

__

I love you for saying 'alleged', but just gimme the positive spin on this mess.

"I don't think any of these other charges relate to violent crimes. Lien said something about evading arrest, fake papers…I think one of these charges is impersonating an officer of the court ... "

"Goren?" Cabot baulks again. Three times in one conversation must be some kind of record. "Playing a lawyer?"

Alex snorts, shrugs, drains her glass.

"Can't know for sure until I figure out the charges."

"It all sounds ... completely bizarre."

The detective's tone is dry as drought. "'Bizarre' doesn't even begin to cover it."

Alex signals for the waiter and orders another round. The weight of the day settles somewhere near her shoulder blades as she sinks into the padded back of the booth.

"I could add 'surreal', 'unbelievable', but ... "

Cabot is watching Alex closely, and she sees the expression on the other woman's face alter.

"But you think it's for real."

Alex doesn't meet her eyes, just throws back a bit more Scotch.

"They charged him, didn't they?"

"Alex, what makes you think -"

"Nothing. Ah, I don't know. Something. Instinct." Alex shrugs ruefully. "The look on Bobby's face. He was scared, y'know? I've never seen him scared before - I was starting to think he didn't have the capacity for it. But ... there it was. And the detective - Lien. He knew her."

Cabot digests this slowly. Her next expression in Alex's direction is compassionate.

"Alex, you've known Bobby Goren for, what, two years now? Has he ever given you any reason to believe he might be capable of something like this? Or to suspect that he isn't the man he claims to be?"

Hard question. Forget philosophising about how well do we ever know anybody really. How well does she know Bobby? Alex is still too lost in the question to acknowledge the arrival of their drinks. She waits for the waiter to leave before trying to answer.

"I just ... I don't know. The idea of Bobby committing a homicide seems ... "

"Improbable at best," Cabot supplies helpfully.

Alex is contemplative. "I've met a lot of perps about whom I could've said the same thing."

Cabot senses the other woman's anxiety, tries to head it off at the pass.

"What about the identity thing?"

"There's never been anything overt. But he's a strange guy, y'know?"

Cabot smiles into her glass. _You can say that again._ But she just nods in reply.

"Sure. I've worked with Goren enough to notice that he's, uh, pretty quirky."

Alex spikes up an eyebrow.

"'Quirky' is always wearing mismatched socks, or liking soccer over baseball, or coming from Nebraska. I think Bobby left the realm of 'quirky' about ... oh, a million quirks ago."

Outright laughter. It feels good, Alex realizes, to release some of the tension. She hadn't known she was holding it in so much, but the giggles she's sharing with Cabot are a relief. When the mood subsides, Alex takes another slug of Scotch and continues.

"I mean, in all honesty? - Bobby is without doubt the most multi-faceted person I've ever met. He's very talented at what he does, but he could be equally good at anything he put his mind to, I think. And he knows a lot of stuff across a really broad range of topics ... "

"A real Renaissance man, huh?"

Cabot smiles, but she's weighing it up. She understands what Alex is saying, but can't help the niggling feeling that it reveals a side of Goren's character that doesn't do a hell of a lot for his defence.

But Alex seems alert to the same idea. She's drawing a finger through the water-rings on the dark benchtop, speaking more slowly.

"Bobby is ... a hard person to know. We have an understanding, but I've never felt like I understood him, if you know what I mean."

Cabot does, and nods gently at Alex to go on.

"He's a great _mirror_ - he'll reflect back at you whatever he thinks you need to see. It works great with suspects, but ... "

"You're never sure where his real personality is hiding?"

__

God, that sounds so ominous. Alex has never shared these understandings of her partner's persona before, it feels weird. And Cabot is a largely unknown quantity ... 

But she has to trust someone.

She tries to make her Philosophy of Goren sound more lucid.

"It's like ... he seems to have these vulnerabilities that he's built a big iron wall around, and now ... Well, he's so open with suspects, I guess it's a kind of personal defence. Only now the wall is so high, you have to really work hard to see the man behind it." Alex spears Cabot's gaze. "You know his mom is schizophrenic?"

Cabot tries not to look surprised four times running.

"No, I didn't know that."

"Yeah, it's true." Alex sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "I mean, I guess it's true. She's on record at Carmel Ridge Hospital, anyway."

"That must have been hard for him." Cabot looks thoughtful.

"I imagine so. Bobby doesn't talk about it much. He's never talked much about his past." Alex runs a finger over the rim of her glass. "I get the impression that his past isn't much worth talking about." 

"Hence the lack of nostalgia," Cabot muses. It sounds like a good character defence. In fact, it sounds like a perfectly reasonable theory for quite a lot of that whole package of bizarreness that makes up Robert Goren. But this goes beyond a simple character flaw - this is murder. Cabot shakes her head – theorizing can only go so far.

"There's only one thing you really have to do, Alex, and it's the simplest way of getting some answers. Just ask him."

Alex makes a moue of irritation. "Can't. Not yet, anyway. I'm waiting on permission from our friendly Detective Inspector Whatever Lien."

"Damn." Cabot winces in sympathy, then takes a sip of her drink. "I guess the thing you have to ask yourself, Alex, is - if he tells you his side of the story, will you believe him?"

Alex blinks at her.

"Well, yeah. Sure. Why wouldn't I?"

Cabot is assessing her. "So you trust him? Completely?"

"Of course."

"Good." Cabot nods, seemingly pleased. "That's what I wanted to hear."

"Why? What difference does it make if _I_ believe him? I'm his partner."

"Yeah, but you _know_ him. And you've worked the job a long time, your instincts are good. If he says it's a set-up, and you believe him, then I'm happy. Because he's probably telling the truth. And _that_, my friend, always makes for a good case."

Cabot is grinning, and Alex returns her grin weakly. She's bouyed by the compliment, but she knows they need more than her say-so to build a good defence. The lawyer catches her expression and does her best to offer support.

"Don't worry. It'll come out in the wash." She nods at Alex's glass. "Finish your drink."

"With pleasure."

Cabot looks thoughtful again as she watches Alex knock back the watery remains of her Scotch.

"Can I ask another question? Why me? Why didn't you approach Carver? He's assigned to Major Case..."

Alex smiles wryly.

"Maybe I take advice better when it's coming from another woman." She shrugs. "I don't know - Carver and Goren ... "

"Mm. Kind of like oil and water," Cabot affirms. "Yeah, I've seen them together. You're probably right to come my way."

Then she gets another look - thinly veiled speculation.

"Here's another one for you. A private one."

"Shoot."

"You and Goren ... you ever get personal?" Cabot's face is nonchalant, like the answer to the question isn't one that the One PP gossip factory hasn't been waiting on for years.

Alex looks taken aback.

"Me and Bobby? No. God ... I mean, I never thought about it."

__

Getting personal… The thought brings a flush to her insides that she has to work to keep off her cheeks. But she's had plenty of practice at maintaining a poker-face. She thinks she pulls it off okay.

Cabot seems satisfied.

"Okay. Fine. Well, if you want me to do some work on this I better get home to the books." She stands and gathers her things. "Thanks for bringing me in on this. I'll try and get some answers for you before tomorrow."

Alex smiles up at her.

"No - thank you, really. I appreciate this a lot."

Cabot returns the smile

"No problem. Good luck. And thanks for the drinks."

"Sure. And Alex?"

"Yeah?"

The two Alexes, in cahoots. Eames has gotta grin.

"Don't forget your shoes."

****

7. The latest. About eleven.

She spends two hours on the couch, with her feet tucked up under her, reading through case notes she's downloaded off the net. The nightcap isn't warming her gut because there's a ball of ice down there, tumbling and snowballing as she reads.

__

Murder. Extradition. Thirty-two years.

Murder, second degree. Supreme Court. Twelve years.

Murder. Extradition. Life, no parole.

Murder.

Fugitive.

Apprehended.

Murder.

Murder.

Murder.

The phone rings.

"It's me."

"What've you got."

"Evading arrest, three counts. Identity fraud, four counts. Impersonating an officer of the court. Evading criminal and civil liability. Obstructing justice and criminal investigations." Pause. "And murder, first degree, one count."

Alex doesn't know what to say.

"Alex, are you there?"

"I'm here."

"These charges go all over the place. Germany for the murder, then Austria, Switzerland ... "

"Okay."

"Are you?"

__

Am I okay? I have a ball of ice in my gut. I feel like screaming, or throwing up.

"I'm fine."

Pause. "All right. I'll send you the paperwork tomorrow. Alex ... I got a call from the AG's office. I have to step back from this one."

"That's okay. I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You've already given me a heads-up, that means a lot."

Pause. "Talk to him, Alex."

"Soon as I can. Thank you."

"No problem. Good luck."

Alex sits back on the couch. The glass in her hand feels cold. Or maybe it's her hands that are cold.

Later, she lies in bed for a long time with one arm under her head, looking at the shifting pattern of shadows on the ceiling, wondering if Bobby has a window, if the same pattern of shadows flies above him, twirling dark, chilling the air in his cell.

****

8. Second day.

"Please give your full name and rank, for the record."

"Alexandra Emily Eames, Detective First Grade, Major Case Squad. Is this gonna take long?"

"Not so long, Detective. We appreciate your cooperation."

The tall guy is Inspector Humboldt. Alex thinks the name clashes with his clean-cut butch attractiveness. At the moment, Inspector Humboldt is fiddling with a small tape recorder which is perched on the end of Deakins' desk. Humboldt is perched too, butt leaning near the corner, his clipboard and pen at the ready.

Deakins, standing with folded arms in the front corner to Alex's right, doesn't look too impressed.

She's in a chair with armrests, regretting last night's alcohol. First she'd overslept the alarm, then spilled coffee on her pants, necessitating a rapid change before a bolt for the subway. Now the sight of Humboldt - and Lien, standing in the far left corner, Deakins' negative mirror - is only exacerbating her foul mood.

__

Nothing like a good morning interrogation.

"Detective, how long have you known Robert Goren?"

The question brings her attention round.

"About two years. We were assigned to work together in May 2000."

"And had you made his acquaintance prior to this time?"

Humboldt's accent is stronger than Lien's. Alex has to strain a little to decipher some of the vowels.

"No."

"But you knew of him?"

"By reputation, yes."

"And what sort of reputation did Mister Goren have?"

__

'Mister' Goren, not 'Detective' Goren. Alex narrows her eyes.

"A good one. Good cop. Successful string of arrests. Impeccable field work. People said he was bright."

"Bright?"

Humboldt looks a bit confused. Alex reluctantly clarifies.

"Bright - y'know, smart. Intelligent."

Humboldt makes a note.

"And this is your experience of working with him?"

"Sure."

Lien blinks. "Would you like to elaborate, Detective?"

__

Not really. "Bobby is good with details, with little clues. He seems to understand suspects' motivations." She's cursing herself as the words come out, watching Lien's eyes harden. "Y'know - he reads people well. It's a knack."

Humboldt frowns again. 

"A knack?"

Alex sighs. "Like a talent. Like being good at basketball, or something."

"Ah. A knack."

"Yeah."

__

God, if this guy needs everything translated this is gonna take all morning. Alex wonders why Lien doesn't just do the interrogating herself. And with that thought, Lien steps forward, all suave tailoring and smooth lines.

"Have you ever heard Detective Goren speak about events occurring overseas? Events of a personal nature?"

"No. Never. Bobby never talks much about himself."

Lien gets a calculating look.

"And have you and Detective Goren ever had a personal relationship, outside of work?"

Alex lets her irritation emerge in her tone.

"If that's an oblique way of asking me if we're fucking, then the answer's no."

Lien matches her - steely, acerbic. The woman's accent seems to come through more sharply, and a wing of black hair slips down over one cheek.

"It's a _polite_ way of asking if you're fucking."

"And the answer is still _no_."

Deakins steps forward with a long-suffering look.

"Inspector, is this really necessary? I'm sure that Detective Eames -"

Humboldt decides to assert his authority a little. Alex figures he doesn't have a hell of a lot to play with.

"We're just trying to get some information, Captain," he says placatingly before turning back to face Alex. "Detective, have you ever heard Mister Goren use a language other than English? Perhaps in his interactions with suspects ... "

Alex tries to centre herself and think about the answer.

"German. I heard him speaking German once." She catches Deakins' surprised face. "I told you about that, remember? The art fraud case."

Humboldt is still regarding her.

"Any other languages? French, Russian ... "

Alex's turn to looks surprised.

"Bobby speaks Russian?" Then she shakes her head. "News to me. Nah, I just heard him talk in German once. I figured he picked it up in the army. He was stationed in Germany for a while, he said."

"Yes," Humboldt confirms. "He was in Munich."

But a warning look from Lien shuts his mouth until the next question.

"So, Mister Goren did talk about his time in Europe."

"He mentioned being in Germany. That was it."

Lien seems frustrated by the paucity of detail.

"And in two years of working closely together, that was all he mentioned about his past? Doesn't that seem slightly strange, Detective?"

Alex shrugs, noncommittal.

"What can I tell you? Bobby's a private kind of guy. He was in the army. He follows the baseball. Likes abstract art. Hates driving in Manhattan. That's about it."

She's feeling a throb in her temples._ Let this crap be over soon._

But Humboldt is tapping his clipboard.

"Have you ever heard him refer to the name Kurt Leherman?"

"No."

Karol Yazek?"

"No."

"Garin Becker?"

"No. What are these, aliases?"

Her question is ignored.

"Has he ever discussed his parents?"

Alex replies cautiously.

"I know his mom's in Carmel Ridge. Schizophrenia, right?"

"That's correct. What about his father?"

Alex is relieved - at least the details about his mother were true. But she shrugs to the question.

"Doesn't talk about him. I think maybe he passed away."

But she's not going to get any more answers. Humboldt regards her seriously.

"And has Mister Goren ever spoken about a woman called Karen Belzen?"

She shakes her head slowly.

"Never heard of her. What is she, an old girlfriend?"

Lien leans forward for the tape recorder, not meeting Alex's eyes.

"Karen Belzen is the woman he murdered."

She snaps the recorder off. Alex doesn't say a word.

"Thank you, Detective. I think that's enough questions for today."

****

9. Third day. Night.

It's night.

After a day spent in a test-pattern haze of home paperwork, Alex's feet take her to the bar of their own volition. The headache is still there. She washes down a couple of Tylenol with her wine.

A heavy hand on her shoulder makes her turn.

"You pill-popping, Detective?"

Deakins' grin is lopsided. Alex isn't in the mood.

"Headache. And don't tempt me."

"Alex ... "

Deakins looks like he's about to say something sympathetic. The hell with that – she's already fielded more than her fair share of sympathetic looks and she's only been in the bar twenty minutes. Alex cuts him off.

"This really is bullshit, right? I'm not the only one thinking this is bullshit."

She's looking for more than moral support. Deakins sucks his teeth.

"They asked me the same questions they asked you, Alex."

"Really? So do they think you're fucking Bobby too?"

"Eames ... "

__

We're back to 'Eames' now ... Alex makes a moue of disgust. Deakins slides onto a barstool.

" ... I couldn't give them any more information than you."

"Right."

The captain snares her gaze.

"Doesn't that strike you as even a little bit weird, Alex? I mean, I've known Bobby longer than you, but I couldn't give them any more details. In the army. Likes baseball ... "

Alex feels her fingers tighten around the stem of her wineglass. Should've ordered a Scotch.

"You're his superior officer. Bobby's not really gonna pour out his heart, if you don't mind me saying, sir."

"Exactly." Deakins' eyes are stony, and Alex remembers that you don't get to captain by being stupid. "And you're his partner and you don't know any more about his personal history than I do. Think about it, Alex."

She's not put off. Her voice is low, emphatic.

"I do. I am. And there's something _wrong_ here. Can't put my finger on it yet, but ... " She sips her wine, finding steadiness in the dry bite on her tongue. "Something. Something's wrong. Something just doesn't gel."

Deakins' jaw is tight.

"They have a lot of evidence -"

"And I haven't seen _any_ of it yet. Why is that, Captain?"

He loosens with an effort, face melancholy as he picks at a coaster. She recognizes the signs of a concession.

"I got permission for you to visit Bobby tomorrow."

Alex sits up. Her face opens like a flower.

"When?"

"Afternoon. A short visit."

She feels a bit bad now about confronting him, but she's glad she pushed. Her expression is sincerely grateful.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Another concessionary half-smile. He looks like he wants to say something else, but settles for 'less-is-more'. "Say hi for me."

"Sure."

As she watches Deakins' departing back, Alex taps the counter for the check. There's someone else she wants to say hi to.

****

10. Same night.

Rain outside, flicking on the windowpanes.

Sandrine Lien, Detective Constable Inspector, is in a white bathrobe, drying her hair over a coffee table papered with case notes. It's been one of the longer days, and jet-lag still makes her eyes prickle with tiredness. She dumps the damp towel onto the arm of the sofa and is about to top up her glass of red when the doorbell sounds.

She tightens her robe over her loose tank and sweatpants and checks the peephole before opening the door halfway.

Alex is dripping a little. There were no cabs, and the rain caught up with her at the start of the block. She leans against the doorframe and slicks back damp hair as she meets Lien's eyes.

"Hi."

"You shouldn't be here, you know."

The woman's brick-wall face is weary and showing chinks. Alex throws all her desperation at it.

"Look, Inspector, I feel like I'm falling down the rabbit-hole here ... " Alex blinks in the pause. "Talk to me. Please."

There's a long moment, so long Alex thinks she's not going to get an invitation. Then Lien opens the door, turns her back as she walks barefoot back to the tiny hotel-room lounge area. Alex hobbles in gratefully, slips off her soggy shoes and leaves them beside the door.

Lien has collected another glass from the tray on top of the tiny bar fridge in the corner.

"Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Have you got anything stronger?"

Lien shrugs apologetically.

"My colleagues down the hall have already raided the mini-bar, I'm afraid. All I have is merlot and tumblers."

"Then merlot is fine. Thank you."

Alex accepts her tumbler, then takes a sofa chair as Lien slides back onto the couch with a sigh. Alex notes the sigh, Vitamin D capsules on the lampstand near the bed.

"Jet lag?"

Lien nods. "A little." She sips her drink slowly.

The two women regard each other for a few seconds. Alex thinks they're not so different - they both have that firm edge that develops over years of working in a hard profession, striving for advancement in a male-dominated field. Alex tries to remind herself that Sandrine Lien is not the enemy.

"How long have you been with Interpol?"

The question seems to take Lien off-guard. She considers before replying.

"Eleven years. I was asked to come on board after working a smuggling case in '83."

Alex nods. "Are you Berlin-based?"

Lien smiles tiredly. "No. You are not familiar with European names?"

Alex gives a little head shake.

"Lien is a French name, not German. I'm from Switzerland."

"But the other guys -"

"They are German, yes. Munich-based. They are tracking the murder."

Alex's face flattens. "And you're tracking Goren."

"Yes." The clipped word, the spare expression, then Lien sips her wine. "But I usually think of him as Boromin."

With a sigh, Alex fits her tumbler into a clear space on the coffee table and clasps her hands together.

"Okay. So tell me about Boromin."

Lien nods at the peace-pipe understanding, and hunkers forward over her notes. Still-wet strands of hair swing in front of her eyes.

"Here." She pulls a thin file from beneath a stack and displays the notes. Her fingers are long - thin hands, no rings. "Let's start from the beginning. Birth certificate for Gellen Damir Boromin, born in Chernivtsi, 1960. Parents, Nikolai and Rayna - no siblings. He lives in the Ukraine until 1967, before immigrating with his parents to the United States."

There's a feeling of pressure behind Alex's eyes, a mental image of Bobby Goren in the squad room. She feels the gentle slap against her hand as he hi-fives her. The sense of his physical presence is strong.

__

Let's start from the beginning.

Alex tries to shift gears, to put to one side all she knows about Robert Goren. Tries to let the detective in her take over. She clears her throat.

"Bobby said something about his mom becoming symptomatic when he was seven ... "

"Yes." Lien nods approvingly. "His father thought the move would help - he was seeking treatment for his wife from American specialists."

"You need money for that."

"Money was never an issue. Nikolai Boromin worked as a diplomatic attache. It was a smooth transition to the Russian embassy here."

Alex blinks. _Russian embassy – right. No Ukraine republic until, what, the nineties? _She picks up the dropped thread.

"So the family moves over, sets up house. Then what - did he switch schools?"

She finds it hard to say 'Gellen'. _Did Gellen switch schools? _Lien continues, unperturbed.

"Gellen was homeschooled until the age of twelve. Then he was placed at the United Nations International School. But in secondary school he went 'off the rails', as you say."

"What was the trigger?"

"His mother was admitted to an asylum in 1975."

"Uh-huh." It all makes excellent sense so far. Alex is speaking as she thinks. "He's fifteen, he's lost his mother twice over - to the disease, and then to an institution ... "

There's movement in her mind; Goren turning his head to look out the passenger window as she drives through Manhattan streets.

__

"Tell Deakins not this afternoon. I have to go to the hospital."

"Your mom?"

"They're moving her to another wing. She gets ... distressed."

Alex blinks back down at the paperwork as Lien shuffles files and talks on.

"You see, we have some records for petty theft. Vandalism. Then things escalated. Just before his eighteenth birthday he was arrested for auto theft."

Alex examines the file notes. "Says here he wasn't charged."

"Mm." Lien sips her wine and reaches across the table to a packet of foreign cigarettes and a slim silver lighter. She taps a cigarette on the back of one hand and motions to the sheet. "His father cleaned it up. I imagine there was some sort of serious discussion - Gellen joined the army when he turned eighteen."

"Ah."

Alex watches Lien light up with one hand and rustle through notes with the other. There are already quite a few butts in the ashtray near the lamp, Alex observes. She also notices that the other woman exhales politely into the air above both their heads. Lien is intent on explaining another detail.

"Here's his army transcripts. Good reports - excellent reports, actually. Commendations during training, top scores on his tests. They facilitated his selection for a tertiary study program – mostly law subjects, some psychology."

"Sounds like he blossomed," Alex intones. She's still fighting the mental pictures - _Goren, hunching a little over the office computer, making occasional notes in a file with that meticulous handwriting he has. He looks up at her absently, and smiles._

Lien is nodding.

"Then he was trained as a field officer - signals, weapons, some medical training… "

__

Bobby snags a pair of latex gloves from a SOC case and snaps them on, intent on the body. He pokes a finger down onto dead skin.

"Here. See the powder burn mark? This was done close up. An execution."

Lien is still talking, unaware of Alex's momentary absence.

" ... showing some proficiency in administration and procedural issues, and he already spoke Russian and English, but he was probably considered too inexperienced to send to the frontlines of the Cold War. So they broadened his horizons – they posted him to Munich in 1981. A very rapid promotion."

Alex refocusses.

"This says he was a military/police liaison. So he was with a JAG unit?"

Lien is shaking her head. Her hair is bothering her, so she tucks her fringe behind one ear.

"No, but he was the first line of approach for the Munich police in cases involving base personnel. Collecting information, legal research, connecting the legal structure of the base with the local authorities. Sensitive work - a position of trust."

__

Something doesn't gel. Alex collects her wine and sits back, frowning.

"A position of trust," she repeats. "So how do we get from here to murder?"

Lien stubs out her cigarettes and exhales smokily. Her expression is unreadable, focussed on the whirlpool of paperwork.

"I have the casenotes on the murder here."

She pulls out another file slowly and passes it to Alex. Then she picks up her tumbler and examines the rosy contents as Alex looks through the notes, the scene-of-crime photos.

Glossy prints. A dark skirt; underneath, pale legs in woollen tights scissoring out bonelessly, in the way of corpses the world over. One shoe is loose beside the foot. Arms splayed, the body in collapse. Close-ups. Blonde hair matted with sticky blood. The back of the head seems to be missing. A neat hole in the forehead, above startling blueness. Karen Belzen's eyes are open.

__

"This was done close up. An execution."

Alex swallows thickly.

She can see the date – 1984. But the case notes are in German, and there is no translation. Did Lien think the photos would shock her? Alex has seen worse, but there's still a hole opening up in her insides.

__

A neat hole in the forehead…

She looks up at Lien, slightly accusing, holding up the written text in one hand. Voice dry.

"I don't read German, so you're gonna have to join the dots."

Lien inclines her head and leans for the papers.

"The coroner's report. Time of death and so forth." She folds over to the next page. "This is the investigating officer's notes."

"Just give me the links."

Liens' eyes narrow and she points to relevant sections of the text.

"He knew her in relation to a case – she was a key witness. He had arranged to meet her. The gun was his. His fingerprints on the body. Fibres and hair – his. He fled the scene – there was a witness."

Alex is shaking her head as the litany of facts rolls out inexorably.

"This is all circumstantial –"

Lien blinks at her.

"_He fled the scene, _Detective. In fact, he fled the country. If this was a suspect in a case you were pursuing would you be so doubting?"

Probably not. I'd probably file for a warrant.

But then again, years of working with Goren in Major Case have taught Alex that sometimes appearances can be deceiving. She frowns and turns over a couple of papers, looking for the army transcripts.

"What about his military unit? Why didn't they investigate this themselves, instead of handballing it to the German police?"

Lien, with a tired patient look, retrieves the relevant papers and points out a note.

"He was discharged a week before the murder."

Alex pulls up short.

"He was discharged?"

"Yes. Here – he was given an honourable discharge on the twelfth."

"And does it say why?"

"It was on the recommendation of his superiors."

Something tugs at Alex's awareness – she grabs the murder notes.

"He was discharged on the twelfth, and Belzen was killed on the nineteenth."

"Yes." Lien's face is a study in 'so what?'.

"So the timing doesn't seem a little strange to you?"

"Not really. He was booked to fly back to the States on the twentieth. He got Belzen out of the way first."

"But he didn't fly back?"

"No." Lien's voice is curt. "He caught a train on the evening of the nineteenth."

Alex's brain is ticking over.

"He changed his plans. Goes against premeditation."

Lien's eyebrows lift.

"He adapted for the circumstances. It doesn't mean he didn't commit the murder."

"No," Alex concedes, but she's keen for more details now. "So where did he go?"

"Austria." More papers, and another cigarette. "We think he got work in a hospital."

"And then?"

"Back home – the Ukraine. Very little record of his movements there, until he contacted his father."

"You had a wire tap on his father?"

"Yes." Lien flicks ash down as she thumbs a small sheaf of papers. "That's how we knew of his movements across-continent. But he was very careful – fake names, short calls, and very infrequent contact. If he hadn't phoned Nikolai Boromin in '87 we would never have known his whereabouts."

"He got clever," Alex says softly.

No, scratch that. He _is_ clever. Bobby's always been one of the smartest people she knows.

Lien is nodding.

"Until he moved to Switzerland, he kept a very low profile. Then in Lausanne, we begin to see records of work, money – all under aliases, of course."

"And that's where you came in," Alex says.

Lien tilts her head gently in acknowledgment.

"I had had some success with other cases like this – fugitive apprehension." She sits back with her wine and blows smoke into the air. A weary smile. "I just never thought it would take me over ten years to catch up with him."

__

So why have you chased him so long? Alex thinks. _Of course – a blot on the copybook. Ten years and no arrest…you start to think of your perp as your nemesis, your albatross._ Then – something else occurs. She narrows her eyes at the other woman as a flash of memory stirs.

__

Goren, melancholy.

"Hello, Sandy."

"How do you want to do this, Gellen?"

"The usual way, I guess."

Alex's furrowed brow smooths out all of a sudden.

"You _knew_ him."

Thin-lipped, pulling her robe tighter, Sandrine Lien stands and walks over to the drinks tray. Alex watches wine splash indignantly into glass, and waits for an answer.

"He knew _me_." The other woman still has her back turned. "We realized later that his job at the time gave him access to information about ongoing investigations."

Alex blinks. "A legal job."

"Yes." Lien turns to face forward, sipping her wine slowly. "Although he would have had to lie to get the relevant records."

__

Impersonating an officer of the court… Alex frowns again. If _she_ had been the fugitive, she would have tried to find out how the investigation into her case was progressing. She would have made it her business to know. And Bobby has always been one for staying two steps ahead of the game…

"He contacted you. A phone call, a letter?"

Lien lets out a short, humourless bark of laughter.

"I _met_ him. On the train, in Lausanne. I was on my way home from work and this huge bear-person sits down next to me, and…"

And Alex can imagine how it went.

__

An enormous figure plonks down next to her. Sandrine is looking out the window and she sighs, hoping that her personal space won't be impinged on for too many stations, when she sees the man's face reflected in the glass.

When she jerks around, he has a hand out a little in greeting. Does her really expect her to shake it? A stab of vulnerability rushes through her – difficult to reach for her handcuffs, her gun in her briefcase between her legs – but he is already talking, quiet tones, a warm voice in faultless German.

"Hello, Detective. I'm sorry – taking you by surprise, I'm probably not…making a very good first impression."

"Boromin." Her throat has seized up a little, it comes out croaky, and she knows her eyes are wide.

"Please – just Gellen is fine. And you are…Sandrine. Sandy. May I call you Sandy?"

Thoughts scrambled, she hasn't the presence of mind to shake her head in the negative. He is smooth-shaven and his bulk next to her is imposing. She registers good clothes, a suit, a nice coat. Discretely stylish aftershave. She fixes her eyes on his face, her wits returning, a fast trickle.

"I'd prefer you didn't call me anything."

She thinks about sinking her hand down to her briefcase. Slowly. He's looking unhappy.

"I'm sorry, but I'm trying to be polite. And please don't do that." He switches to English and gives her a meaningful glance. "I don't think you want to pull out your gun on a train full of civilians."

He's right – it would be stupid. And with his height and bulk he could overpower her easily.

"Please. Just listen to me. I won't take up much of your time."

It seems she has no choice in the matter.

"So what did he say?" Alex questions. Half her mind is watching Lien baulk at the returning memory; the other half is laughing its ass off. It's such typical Goren. Jesus – he even said 'please'.

Lien sighs. "Before he took off at the next station? He said he was getting tired. I imagine it becomes tiring, after a while, changing names and languages, always looking over your shoulder."

"I bet." Alex can only speculate. She squints at Lien, a little impatient. "What else did he say?"

And there's a subtle transformation. The dark-haired woman's expression goes grim, flattens out into uncertainty - then she firms her mouth, her purpose.

"He said…well, naturally, he said that I was chasing the wrong person. He said there was another man, an American, who was there the night of Belzen's murder. That he was the one who committed the crime."

Alex has been holding her breath and now she releases it. Nice and steady. She doesn't want to jump down Lien's throat, fall out of her good graces. She feels like shaking her fist in triumph, but she doesn't – she looks away from the other woman, down at the table, squeezes her fingers together. Nice and steady.

"And did you follow up on this information?"

Lien is looking so sure of herself now, so convinced, that Alex feels in her gut that the Swiss woman is wrong.

"Yes, of course. He named an officer from the Munich barracks who was stationed there at the time. There were some connections, I admit it. But no evidence. Nothing to link him to the crime. Apparently he was still on the base at the time of the murder."

"And who was this guy?"

Lien is no fool. The _Amerikanischer Detektiv_ might be a clever actor but she can't be _this_ nonchalant.

"We discounted him, Alex. _Years_ ago. He was nowhere near Belzen on the night she was killed. We have records to watertight his alibi – sign-out sheets, witness reports –"

Alex meets her eyes, granite-faced.

"_What was his name?"_


	2. next chapter

**__**

Author's note: You've all been very lovely with reviews – thank you. Again, please, let me know of any factual errors (aside from the fact that it veers wildly from canon). Disclaimers etc – see chapter one.

Fourth day. A nice day – sunny, no wind. 

Feeling too warm in her black jacket, Alex waits until she's in the interview room before she takes it off. Underneath, she's wearing a grey tank over black pants. Plain. She didn't want to look too nice.

Good of them, to give up an interview room. It's better than talking on phones behind plexiglass. Still, she doesn't sit on the metal chairs. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed will do fine.

When the door cracks, she looks over eagerly, arms unfolding. She may not have dressed up, but she doesn't want him to think she hasn't been looking forward to seeing him.

But neither of them says a word until the guard finishes removing the cuffs and leaves the room.

"Hey."

Bobby is still rubbing his wrists, looking at her gingerly. For a second, she's frozen. He's wearing a clean white t-shirt under standard issue orange coveralls, and he looks rough. Tired. Unshaven. His eyes have dark circles around them. He's standing five feet away, staring at her, and she can't believe it's really him. She swallows thickly and stays where she is, insurance against doing something stupid, like running up and hugging him.

"Hey." She nods with her chin. "You working on a jailhouse beard?"

Bobby smiles – a little rueful, relaxing.

"They won't give me a razor." He pauses, gives her a look. "I think they're being…over-cautious."

It's enough. _Yeah, that's him_. Alex snorts.

"Tell me about it. I had to get special dispensation from Her Holiness DCI Lien just to see you." Her smile shifts - melancholy. "It's good to see you."

He sighs. He can be open now.

"You too." He smiles, kind of, then crooks an eyebrow at the small pile of stuff on the table in the centre of the room. Alex had been kept waiting for an hour while they examined it all. "And you bought presents… Who says you never give me anything?"

His voice is soft. She winces internally at the memory, extends a hand at the gifts.

"Be my guest."

Ever polite, he meets her eyes as he checks the book spines.

"Hm. A history of the Cultural Revolution…_'Pollock – a Biography'_…and…" He squints in recognition. "…Coetzee." He looks up at her, appreciative, half-surprised. "This is one of his best. Thank you."

"No problem."

She hadn't been sure about the Coetzee, but she knows he doesn't mind re-reading titles he's had before. Now she's fielding one of his best blank stares.

"No case files?"

She returns his look with interest.

"Funny. Anyway, I can't. Deakins put me on leave."

Bobby's face drops.

"Damn… Alex, I'm sorry about that."

She waves it off.

"Forget it. Not like any other investigation would have my complete attention anyway…"

The reminder makes him nod and look away. He pokes a finger down at the last of her 'presents', in their long, flat, red and white box.

"What's this?"

She blinks at him.

"You never seen a carton of Marlboros?"

He's amused. "Cigarettes?"

"Currency," she says, all seriousness.

"I'm not in general population, Eames."

A shrug. "Prisoners aren't the only ones who smoke."

"You think I can bribe my way out with a few packs of Marlboros?"

His face is sardonic, but there's a black thread to his tone. The underlying anger. Frustration. Alex takes a step towards him.

"Bobby…"

He runs a hand over his face, through his hair, and turns away. Hates the sympathy. She's not supposed to see him like this. And now he's taking it out on her. Shit.

"Sorry."

"S'okay."

She doesn't know what else to say. She's both surprised and then not, when he moves for the cigarettes, opens a pack, slides one out.

"Do you mind?"

"No – god, of course not." Does he have to ask? She reaches for the book of matches in her pants pocket. "Here. Keep 'em."

He lights up with a nod of thanks. His first draw is strong; there's a cough, which makes them both grin a little.

Alex is watching him. He takes a few steps away, towards the window grille. The dull light from outside throws his face into relief, the cigarette smoke curling up – very atmospheric.

__

This isn't working. She's come here hoping to push for answers, to put the puzzle pieces together, and most of all, for a renaissance – she wants to feel that connection again, that sense of understanding him. Poke a little at the ESP of their relationship, that easy back-and-forth they have when they're on a case…

But it's not working. She knows too much, and his self-control is too strong.

__

Damn you, Bobby. We don't have time for this.

She gets angry then, and it's anger that does the trick. She pulls out a chair, a harsh metallic grating, and plonks herself down.

"Okay. Fine. We've said our hellos, and you've had a smoke. So."

Bobby looks over. The gearshift has startled him, and now she's sitting down in parley-mode.

"Talk to me, Bobby."

Damn, but he'd forgotten how her lack of diplomacy is her best asset. Her no-nonsense expression almost makes him grin.

"How much do you know?"

Alex can see it now, in his face – mortar crumbling, walls coming down. Or wanting to. She pushes gently.

"Well, I grilled Lien for the official version – but now I want yours." He still looks tentative. "Come on, Detective. Spill."

He grins then, recognizing the tone. _Remind me to tell her not to use that tactic in interrogations._ But he scuffs out his smoke and sits opposite her. To be honest, it's a relief. He rubs his face again.

"I…"

Where to start? He closes his eyes for a lazy second, lets his mind spin, spiral back, twisting, travelling down, into the time that was. When he looks up, he's in another place, another when. Remembering.

That's it.

That…feeling.

His lips part, voice soft.

"I…liked Germany. Munich was vibrant. The people, the culture…everything. I'd been promoted – you know about that?"

Alex nods. It seems best to just shut up and listen. Watching Bobby's face open and shift with the memories is an epiphany.

"I was…very young. I was twenty-four. And I had this position I really enjoyed – the police liaison stuff. Lots of one-on-one with the Munich cops. Lots of paperwork. Anyway…"

He reaches for another cigarette almost without thinking. There's no cough this time.

"So. Things were going well. Everyone was happy with me, with my progress." He looks at his fingernails contemplatively. "My dad…my dad was happy with me."

He seems uncomfortable. Alex smoothes the road.

"You felt vindicated, " she says softly.

Bobby looks up, surprised.

"Yes. I felt…I felt like seventeen years old was a long way back in history."

The glimpse she catches then, of the teenager he'd been, is painful. Alex swallows and prods him over the guilt.

"What happened?"

He frowns. "A big case. A bad one. The rape and murder of a fourteen year old girl. It was linked back to one of the officers on the base."

"Mark Metcalfe was your immediate superior."

Alex's revelation flattens his expression.

"Yes. I was his protégé, I guess. I didn't want to believe it. And he had a solid alibi, over thin evidence. But when I went through the papers, the depositions…it just…smelled wrong. Something. Something just…"

Bobby shrugs. Alex almost breathes out her response.

"Something just didn't gel."

"Right," he nods. "I mean, Metcalfe had all the right answers – the sign-out private, his friends… It was all clean as clean. And he had another alibi. A German girlfriend. She said she was with him for the whole night in question."

There's a shiver in Alex's gut.

"Karen Belzen."

"Yes."

Bobby's hand holding the cigarette trembles a little. He's been asked a million questions over the past three days – and now the only person asking the right ones is the woman who is probably least credible for his defence. The prospect of Alex seeing the whole picture so clearly, and then being unable to help him, is making him a little dizzy.

Alex only sees him draw back. She pushes harder.

"Metcalfe's indictment was aborted. The evidence was too circumstantial." She's guessing, but Bobby's pallor tells her she's on the money. "Friends in high places."

He nods slowly.

"Better friends than I ever had."

"You were discharged. How long did they wait?"

"Oh, they were very patient. They let me dangle a full two months." He snorts, then waves it off. "It didn't matter. My tour was coming up – they just didn't recommend I be re-signed. I knew it was coming."

"So…tell me what happened."

She's ignoring the fact that she's asking the wrong question. The relevant one. But asking straight out if he killed Belzen would feel like a betrayal, and Bobby has already opened up so much, and she's telling herself that she doesn't believe he did it anyway. She sees him watching her face. She keeps her expression spare, neutral. The thought that he might recognize this expression from the interrogation room is discomforting.

Bobby looks away to his cigarette.

"Even if I tell you…you can't help, Eames."

A mixture of guilt and annoyance creeps into her tone.

"I don't care. Tell me anyway."

"I didn't kill her, Alex."

His soft voice drifts on the air like smoke. Alex blinks, tries not to shiver. Her own words come out thick and throaty.

"Tell me anyway."

** Germany – Munich. 1984 **__

This is like some kind of dream.

He's sitting in a hotel room off the Hauptbahnhof, looking at the phone, and the words just keep coming back to him.

__

I said that, didn't I?

Yeah, he said it. He remembers saying it, feeling the stupid smile on his face when the NCO drove him from the airport to the base – looking at the streets in winter, the lights on as dusk approached, people walking around in thick coats and hats and gloves, rugged up against the cold. The NCO had looked over at him with bemusement. Green kid. Young. Smart. _(You don't know how smart.)_

"Welcome to Munich."

And he was made to feel welcome. The base had felt like home, and he had his own office – well, kind of. His own desk, anyway, always spilling over with paperwork, a phone, a filing cabinet mashed up beside him, corralling him in, but it was interesting work and he wasn't complaining. His CO took him to the officer's club that first night, bought a round of drinks, he felt like he shook about a hundred people's hands, his natural reserve thawing in the general atmosphere of male army bonhomie.

__

This your new staffer, Metcalfe? Don't worry kid, he'll run you into the ground with reports, but at least he won't get you to make the coffee…

And he nodded, and smiled, and drank up – that night, other nights – and he had another name then, and no one knew he had a schizo mother, and a history of boosting cars, and it didn't matter anyway.

__

This is like some kind of dream.

The words flooding back again when he read through the papers – witness reports, affidavits, depositions, sign-out sheets, the testimony of the parents of the girl who was dead now. Photos of a blue-grey face with bruises, everything in the photos an ugly monochrome – grey face, silver-grey autopsy table, grey background. He remembers one detail in particular, the way her hair had waved out to one side in a long thin braid, sickly wisps of blonde bedraggled down around her head, not enough to obscure the mottled bruises around her throat…

Some of her hair had been pulled out at the roots, near the fringe – raw patches. She'd fought hard.

He'd stared at the photos again and again, kept going back to them, couldn't leave them alone, and when he read through the reports that said how Metcalfe had left the base at time X and arrived at Belzen's apartment at time Y, and how Duncan, the sign-out clerk, could vouch the times – swear on them, in fact – and how Belzen and Mark had eaten dinner at her place and he hadn't left her sight all night, so help her God…

He kept coming back to the photos. The coroner's report. The photos. The place, the time, the scene – and the photos.

Grey monochrome.

Hair ripped out, and vaginal trauma, and death by strangulation. Severe bruising to the face, neck, pelvis. No prints. Saliva, semen, blood type. Fingernail scrapings.

__

This is like some kind of dream.

Tables turned. People didn't want to shake his hand anymore. No one bought drinks. He used to sit on his neatly made bed at night with the table lamp on, looking through the paperwork, smoking and re-reading, looking for something concrete, anything, that would make him feel in his gut that he was wrong.

He kept coming back to the photos.

__

Should've left it alone, kid. Have a sense of loyalty, for Chrissakes.

And he did, a strong sense of loyalty, only it was to the wrong person.

A girl with a blonde braid, and bruises.

All of Munich had become a grey monochrome.

How had he gotten here? To this place?

Staring at the phone, wishing he'd never picked it up. Karen Belzen's voice in his ear - thick, maybe a little drunk. He's only seen her once before, when she gave testimony. She's a blonde too, he remembers.

It is this thought that gets him moving.

He's written down the name of the bar on the back of his plane ticket, so he copies it onto a scrap of paper before grabbing for his coat, gloves, scarf. It's cold out. Has the year passed so quickly?

Three blocks, and snow falls lightly on his shoulders. He looks at the flakes, frozen chaos theory melting on the wool over his palms.

The bar is gloomy but obviously popular. He finds her in a back booth, recognizes the flash of blonde, and after he orders and walks over, he speaks her name softly - she startles.

"_Gott im Himmel_, you frightened me. Sorry – sit, sit down."

This is enough to unnerve him. Does anybody else know she's here? Before he can still the second thoughts his coffee has arrived. Belzen takes the opportunity to request another beer; he's trying to assess how many she's already had. He watches her light a cigarette as she orders, and thinks _I don't know this woman_. _I don't know her at all_. He keeps his voice quiet.

"Can I ask you…how did you get my number?"

She nods at the question, cigarette a brusque counterpoint in her stiff fingers. Comforted by the fluidity of his language she launches into a smooth flow of unadulterated German.

"Don't worry, I was very discrete. Look, I know this is kind of late, they said you were leaving soon –"

"Tomorrow. I fly back tomorrow."

"Right." She gestures again with the cigarette. "So this is my last chance to tell you, I guess…"

He's still feeling unnerved by the whole situation. He sips his coffee.

"Last chance to tell me what?"

Belzen shrugs, eyes flicking around. Weird mannerisms, he thinks – coquettish and insecure by turns.

"About Mark. You know. My testimony. I mean, it's all over now, so it's kind of pointless, I guess…"

Her eyes flicking everywhere, and he doesn't have to hear her say it, he knows. How does he know? It doesn't matter. He knew when he picked up the phone, heard her voice – before that, even. Something inside him sinks, settles into a warm sighing river of understandings confirmed.

"You lied in your testimony," he says softly.

She jerks, her gaze meeting his all of a sudden. He keeps talking in the same quiet undertone.

"You gave Mark an alibi for the whole night. You said he was at your apartment by 8.30pm, and Duncan signed him out at 8.12. I'm just counting backwards…it isn't too hard to figure out, Karen."

She's blinking at him now, expressions turning over quickly. Her voice comes out belligerent.

"It wasn't _just_ me, okay? If it had been just up to me, I would have said something. But I wasn't the only one. Mark said he just needed a few extra minutes up his sleeve, so don't go finger-pointing like I'm some kind of..of…"

Words fail her at this point. _Murderer_, is the word she doesn't want to say, he thinks. _You're not a murderer, Karen – you're an accessory_. But he doesn't want to inflame her further, he's trying to tease out the whole story. He prods gently.

"I'm not finger-pointing, Karen. I just want to understand what happened. How much time did you add?"

"Not much." She grinds out her smoke with stabbing motions, blows out near his face, looks away. "A little. Twenty minutes. He was only twenty minutes late. I..I didn't think anything of it, you know?"

He's counting backwards again. Eight-fifty. And witnesses saw something at 8.30. By 8.35 the girl was dead. Add on travel times. Metcalfe would have had to be off base before eight. _Duncan_, he breathes out silently.

Karen is looking at him. He takes a sip of coffee to clear his head and reassure her – still here, still cogitating.

"I'm listening, Karen. It wasn't just you. You said that."

"Yeah." She's trying to sound firm, but her voice is tremulous. "I wasn't… It wasn't just me. He said it would be okay. He said...there were other people to back him up."

And there were, of course. If there is one thing he knows about Metcalfe it's that the man has a gift for covering his ass. There's only one thing he's confused about now.

"Karen… why are you telling me this? I mean, why now?"

She shrugs again as she lights another cigarette, apparently noncommittal. He realizes that she's thought about this – she believes she's thought it through, but in fact she still doesn't have the foggiest idea.

"I just… I wanted to tell someone, you know? I saw you, at the hearing, and then I heard they kicked you out, and I just… I felt bad, you know?"

He stares at her. _You felt bad about me. You felt bad. Your boyfriend rapes and murders a fourteen year old girl, and then comes and has dinner with you, and you know he did it, and then you felt bad. About me. _He has to fight hard to keep the sudden wash of revulsion off his face. She continues blithely.

"…anyway, I know it doesn't matter now. I mean, you're leaving tomorrow. But I just… I don't know."

She's looking at her fingers holding the cigarette, and then, as if suddenly realizing something about herself, she makes a moue of distaste. Sips her beer. At that moment he wishes that he was a thousand miles away from this woman. Clears his throat to speak.

"Karen… Karen, I…" Stops himself. Redirects. "Thank you. For telling me. Really. It's…it's good to know."

She nods and smiles politely.

"No problem."

She's gathered her cigarettes and her bag. He puts a hand gently on her arm.

"Karen, I'm not sure what to do with this information."

She stops to stare.

"What do you mean 'what to do with it'? You can't do anything with it now. It's over. I mean –"

"Karen, I'm a civilian now. But I still have contacts with the Munich police. I'd really like to –"

"Wait. Wait just one damn _minute_." Her eyes are wide and her voice is rising steadily as she sinks back down. "You can't do _anything_. _Nothing_. I mean it. Jesus, the only reason I told you was –"

"Because you knew I was leaving. Yeah, I got that. But –"

"No 'buts' – what are you, crazy?"

Other people are starting to look their way. He glances around nervously, then makes a quick decision and throws some money on the table for their drinks, rises to put on his coat. He'd rather discuss this without an audience, and he knows she'll be compelled to follow him. She's still talking loud.

"Jesus, I spill my guts to you, and now you want to go to the cops? There's no fucking way I'm –"

"Do you mind if we continue this conversation outside?"

There's no room for her to object, he's already moving to the side exit and she scrambles for her things and trails a step behind. Three steps out into the side alley and his boots sink into snow, cold air blasts his face, and he turns to accept Karen's slap of words, her cheeks already pinking with the change of temperature.

"Don't _do_ this! Don't you _dare_ do this! If I'd wanted to go to the cops I would have done it myself…"

"Jesus, Karen…" He holds up his hands – fingertips chilling quickly, he's forgotten to put on his gloves. "What did you think I was gonna do? Fly back to the States and pretend this never happened?"

"Goddamnit, I don't _believe_ this. I never would have called you if I'd known…"

He's taken a few steps up the alley, and now he turns, the dim illumination from the lights further up the street darkening his expression of disbelief.

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you? He _killed_ her, Karen. He raped her, then he killed her. And you helped him get away with it!" He's frozen in place, ice on his breath as he examines her face, trying to figure out where her humanity went. "Why on earth did you do that? I can't… I just can't understand… Did you think this was some kind of way to show him that you _loved_ him?"

__

Or were you frightened he would leave? The thoughts are out before he can stop himself, and he realizes it's too close, too personal. Cut to the quick. Her face hardens into a snarl and she takes a step forward.

"If you go to the cops, I'll deny every damn thing I just said to you."

"And what did you say, sweetheart?"

The voice is soft and gravelly, but it carries. Karen's face registers shock, and she's staring at a point behind him, and he turns and feels the back of his neck prickle as Mark Metcalfe – tall, dark-haired, hands in black jacket pockets – steps away from the wall of the alley.

__

Frozen chaos theory.

Count backwards. Metcalfe, dumpster, himself, Karen, side door of the bar…

Metcalfe takes a step closer.

"What did you say, sweetheart?" he repeats.

Karen has paled dramatically, her mouth opens and closes, stammering, voice croaking.

"Nothing. I didn't say nothing, honey, I swear to god…"

Metcalfe just smiles pleasantly.

Gellen has turned side-on – right side to Metcalfe, left side to Belzen – trying to watch both ends of the interplay, so Karen's sudden movement catches him by surprise, when she stumbles towards him fists raised, face contorted with anger. Her hands flail at him, hard but ineffectual, and before logic kicks in all he can think is '_why is she taking it out on me?_'.

"…_bastard_, you fucking _shit_, I never said anything! _I never said nothing_, you fuck –"

His turn towards her to still the blows is automatic. But he'll remember it later – it's something he'll always remember; that Metcalfe smiled, and he turned. He turned his back on him.

__

Never turn your back on a suspect.

"Karen – _Karen_, don't –"

"…you fuck, you goddamned stupid –"

"_Karen_ –"

He's holding her at arm's length, hunched down a little to make eye contact, when the Noise happens, and the world stops turning, and he suddenly goes deaf.

He must be deaf. Her mouth is open but no sound emerges, no torrent of abuse. No sound at all. And he blinks at the neat round hole in her forehead for an entire second…

…before the world starts turning again, spinning, fast, too fast for Karen at any rate as her momentum reverses and she falls toward him, he gasps, she tumbles into his arms, tumbles further, he's not doing a very good job of catching her, and now he can hear the echo of the shot off the alley walls as Karen Belzen slides into a puddle of slush on the street.

His breathing is coming short and heavy, and he's on his knees, entangled in dead, eyes gasping wide around. He takes in Karen's blonde hair, the snow seeping red, the gutter's edge, and then over – Mark is looking at him, the gun is hanging at his side. Gloves, Gellen notes dully – he's wearing gloves.

Mark has a look on his face, a total lack of interest, and something else – a smudge of apology maybe, sorry kid, no hard feelings. No regret, no surprise.

Gellen's trying to think but there's still an echo bouncing around the inside of his brain, a resounding numbness afflicting every place it touches. He finds himself opening and closing his lips, soundless, like Karen. And there's no exchange of words, no shared moment of insight between murderer and witness, because the shot was LOUD, and Mark knows it. He shrugs, then turns away, begins trotting back down the alley. Gellen gets his mind and his voice back in one instant, watching his chance to relieve the overwhelming greyness of life retreating, and he struggles up.

"Metcalfe! _Metcalfe!_ Shit…"

Torn for a second between giving chase and duty of care – he crouches for a brief moment to check on Karen, pulseless, lifeless.

The bar door opens.

A burly moustachioed man stands in the doorway, frozen in the act of wiping his hands on his black apron.

Gellen, distracted - one eye on Karen's body, one on the door, conscious of Metcalfe slipping away – barks an order quickly.

"_Call the police. Call an ambulance."_

And then there's movement, he's loping, then running after Metcalfe, his wet coat-tails slapping his legs, and the dark slim shape a half-street ahead. He runs hard, keeping up with corner-turns and direction-changes, until he can't feel his feet anymore, and he can't see Metcalfe's back for the flurries of snow, flakes drifting down silently, the only sound the gasping of his own breath, the thump of his heart…

He stops, leaned over his thighs, looking around. He's blocks from the hotel and Metcalfe is gone, swallowed whole.

__

Dammit.

Lost in the city. Gellen takes a last gulp of air and a squint down the backstreet, then straightens. Useless. It's an ennervating feeling – he feels wobbly, hollow. Disoriented and still shaking. Dammit.

He heads for the streetlamp, trying to get his bearings. There are no street signs, but he can see the lights of the bar district, and then suddenly his mouth is dry as dust.

He spots a handrail descending, and the universal symbol for 'Male' at the bottom of the steps, and he's never been so glad to find Munich public amenities. Grasping the handrail tight keeps his legs from falling as he makes his way down, pushing the door carefully, hoping to find himself alone. And he is.

The water from the faucet is freezing, makes him cough. He drinks as little as possible, then looks up into the mirror – cracked, graffitied – as he wipes his mouth.

__

Frozen chaos theory.

This is what it looks like. It never even occurred to him until then. Would he have chased Metcalfe if he'd known? It doesn't matter now.

There's blood on his face, in his hairline. Not streaks of the stuff, just little dribbles. A red splodge at his chin.

__

She fell forward, he remembers. He traces the motion of the bloodspatter with his finger.

Here, here, here. More significantly on his shirt – there, a long trailing stain. There, and there – his coat, his cuff. His cuff is sodden, he realizes. And he realizes something else.

__

This looks…very bad.

He thinks about the scenario, the witness. The bartender. Because suddenly Gellen himself is no longer the witness – the bartender is the witness.

__

I called for the police, for an ambulance.

Did the guy hear him? Probably yes. Then what –

__

I ran.

That's right – he ran. And he thinks of Metcalfe's gloves, and his apologetic shrug, and his stomach does a strong, slow twisting turn, as he thinks of what it will mean if he returns to the scene now, and he thinks very hard, and he doesn't throw up, not until much later, when he's back in his hotel room, changing his clothes and thrusting stuff into his duffel bag, and washing his face and hands and then, then he throws up –

Violent, hopeless, useless.


	3. chapter after that

**__**

Author's note: Disclaimers etc see chapter one. Thanks for your patience, next bit coming soon.

Back in the interrogation room

"Why did you run?"

"Because I didn't want to spend a lifetime in a German jail for a murder I didn't commit."

"But why? You said yourself, you still had contacts, people who –"

"_I fled the scene_, Alex. Think about it. Fibres, hair, fingerprints – all mine."

"And your gun."

"I didn't find that out until later."

"Metcalfe was pretty thorough."

"He was."

"So…Austria."

"Austria."

****

13. Austria – Graz. 1986

It was tiny, a basement squat really. Bed, table, chair, dresser, and one window where he could see people's feet tramping past in the morning. Rising damp.

The money hadn't lasted long, it was really just enough to get the rudimentary papers he required. Under the counter stuff. Meet a guy, who knows another guy, who knows a friend who can do the business. Don't ask too many questions, and don't answer any in return. It felt grubby, but the documents looked pretty real, so that was something.

He still had to feed himself though, and the city was a better place to hide than in the countryside, where everyone knew everyone else, and the arrival of a strange car or a new individual was always a matter of public notice.

He got a job in a public hospital, in the morgue – mostly heavy lifting, and getting rid of medical waste in the huge disposal fires downstairs. After his first few unsupervised trips, he took a look around to make sure no one was checking, and then threw his army ID and his old personal papers into the fire. Gellen Boromin crisped up quickly and disappeared in a puff of ash.

It made him think about Metcalfe, disappearing into the flurries of snow.

He thought a lot – about that, about plenty of things. He was always surprising himself. Just when he felt that he'd conquered the anger, the frustration, the sense of injustice and unfairness, something would happen or a thought would come, and the feelings would come flooding up again – hot, spurting, bitter. And then the resultant hopelessness, the depression. Sometimes getting out of bed was hard beyond belief. Sometimes he felt like he was being smothered, like he was gasping, clawing for air. Being in the basement probably made it worse.

He thought about his mother then. Two people in the family now, he reflected. Two life sentences. He wondered sometimes whether he should just go back, if jail could really be any worse.

He succumbed, and phoned his father in September. The old man's gasp of recognition over the phone nearly killed him.

"You're…you're mistaken, sir. My name is Kurt Lehrman."

And the old man cottoned-on pretty quickly. They spoke in short sentences, terse voices full of underlying meaning. He asked about 'state-side assets', and heard that they were being well looked after. Finally his father asked if Mr. Lehrman needed any help with the Austrian account, and he almost said no, he felt so ashamed, until he realized that this was the only way his father could reach out and comfort him now, so he mumbled the number into the phone. Their last words were clipped, business-like goodbyes full of forced genial cheerfulness that spoke nothing of the agonies of unvoiced care and cautions.

Three weeks later, he goes in to do a nightshift, punching his card and nodding at the technicians, and finds one of the dogsbody interns opening up the freezer trays. The casual invasion of the privacy of the dead rarely unsettles him anymore.

"What's the matter? You guys upstairs forget something?"

The intern is checking a toetag.

"Nah. It's some police procedural thing, they want all the John Does checked for a description match."

He extends a hand for the intern's clipboard and his fingers barely tremble.

"Let me see. Maybe I can help."

A long glance down the description list, then he passes it back with a shrug.

"Well, we've only got one guy over six foot, but I don't think he's a match. Sandy hair, blue eyes. Sorry."

The intern makes an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace.

"Oh well – spares me the paperwork, anyway. Thanks."

"No problem."

With a cordial smile, he goes to the nearest disposal bin, picks up the yellow waste bag and gives the neck a twist, then heads out of the morgue. Nods to the nightguard at the door then pushes the bag on the trolley around the corner and into the janitor's room. Leaves, and walks quickly out the glass doors of the hospital. Pulls off his white attendee's coat and stuffs it into a dumpster. Walks towards the street with the bus-stop briskly.

Never looks back. 

****

Interrogation room again

"Did your father's phone call make you miss home?"

"Not really. Kind of. I hadn't thought of the Ukraine as home for a long time."

"Then why go back?"

"I don't really know. Maybe I did miss home."

"But you didn't contact any of your relatives…"

"No. Too risky. I figured that it was a place I knew. I felt like…I needed to get my bearings."

"So did it help?"

"Not really."

****

14. Ukraine. 1988

"Karol?"

Her voice is sleepy. It's still too early in the morning, and the sun is barely up. He likes watching it come up. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. A steady soothing rhythm – the world turns, life goes on, millions of people go about their day-to-day. No alarm bells sound, no sirens go off, no lights flash, and he can get up, and work, and sweat, and wash, and eat, and fall into bed tired, and hardly dream at all.

Sometimes, in the winter, he sees dark figures retreating in the snow. Or blood on his face in the mirror. Or grey undertones in the lamplight, in the early morning.

But not today.

Today will be warm and clear, after the frosts retreat, and he'll be wearing loose shirts and gloves – probably working the tractor, maybe some hand-ploughing in the outer fields where there's more rock. He's been working itinerant short-term stuff for over a year and it seems to suit. Keeping things simple. No bank accounts, no tax returns, no paperwork. Cash in hand, from the industrial areas of Donetsk to here. Five hundred kopiykas equals five hyrvna equals one US dollar.

That's a problem. He keeps converting into US dollars. He's tried to stop himself, but it's an automatic mental calculation.

"Karol?"

"Yeah…"

He's distracted by the light coming up over the mountains. Beautiful.

"Come back to bed, Karol."

He turns his head to look at her, and feels his face soften. More beauty. She has long straight auburn hair, and he can see the strands pooling on the pillow in the half-light.

"I'm coming."

He smiles at her, her slender shape limned under the blankets, when it suddenly hits him. The realization freezes his expression – his smile stays fixed, but his eyes begin blinking, losing focus.

__

You can never marry. Never settle. Never have a family, a steady job, a career, an intellectual life. Never lose this sense of insecurity. This need to stay moving, this fear, this anger, this constant instability. You may talk yourself into a feeling of contentment, but never be truly free. And anyone who enters into this life with you will end up as imprisoned and unsafe as you yourself feel.

"I…I'm coming."

He looks back at the emerging sun, and his whole body feels dulled, leaden. It's a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree moment. And he thinks that this entire time he thought he was being smart, playing it well, when in fact he was stupid, stupid.

__

This is never going to let up. This is never going to leave me alone.

And he's been living in a dream world, where he could stay under the radar and start afresh, but he's been a fucking idiot, and he's lost nearly two more years off his life, his real life. Two more years wasted – four years in total.

He closes his eyes and thinks about the money he's got stashed away, and makes a quick conversion into US dollars. And then he thinks about what he'll need – clothes, shoes, other window-dressing stuff – plus the paperwork. He'll need to go to the Netherlands for that. And where to start. He's not sure.

There's not much time left then, so he goes back to bed, slides back under the blankets to touch, for the last time, the woman he's almost let himself fall in love with.


	4. and the next chapter

****

Interrogation room

Alex has been thinking.

"There was no DNA evidence against Metcalfe in '84."

"No. That didn't come in until '87."

"But you thought about it."

"Yes." He's lit up another cigarette. "But it didn't matter. There was still Karen."

"Hm." She doesn't want to interrupt the flow too much. "What did you do in Switzerland?"

"What did I do?" He snorts, humourless. "I did what everyone does. I went skiing."

****

15. Switzerland – St. Moritz. 1988

Oskar Brennen is sitting in a comfortable armchair near the fire, warming his toes with cognac and espresso, when another man arrives and nods to the opposite seat.

"Do you mind?"

"Of course not. Please."

Oskar, a tall heavy-muscled man with iron-grey at his temples now, is feeling pleasantly dozy amidst the lounging men's club ambience. And the stranger's height and breadth of shoulder instill a sense of big men's comradery, so he relaxes further into his chair, imbibing friendliness.

The tall stranger makes his order, watches the prompt waiter disappear towards the bar, and dips into his inside coat pocket, hand reemerging with a stylish silver tin. Oskar is appreciative – he is a connoisseur of style.

"Cigarette?"

"Why thank you."

They smoke in companionable silence until the gentleman's drink arrives, and the pleasantries may resume themselves.

"Well. This is a good way to unwind at the end of the day."

"It is." Oskar smiles, pleased to extend an inside joke. "And have they found skis large enough for you yet?"

The man grins in return.

"No, I made it easy for them. I brought my own."

They laugh together, and Oskar blows his smoke away to the floor.

"Probably a wise decision. I haven't seen you at the club before, Mr..?"

"Becker. Garin Becker." And Mr Becker extends his hand and they shake on it. "No, this isn't my usual spot, but it was recommended by a friend. I thought I'd try it for a change."

"Ah, then I hope you're enjoying the change."

"I am. On-piste generally isn't my forte, but the extra falls have been good. The powder is very smooth."

They discuss the relative merits of downhill versus cross-country for a while, until Oskar sees a friend.

"Ah, Frank – good to see you." He lifts a hand to Becker. "Mr Becker and I were just discussing the usual."

Introductions are made all round. And Garin Becker, aka Karol Yazek, aka Kurt Lehrman, aka Gellen Boromin, fugitive from justice, settles in for an evening of useful contact-making. By the end of the week he has a new set of acquaintances, and a new job. All it took was some heavy practise in the snow, some social research and a vast expenditure of money.

He's relieved about the job.

In Lausanne, he begins work as a legal researcher and he sees Brennen in the halls, and on occasion, socially. He gets down to his last dollar maintaining the pretence of a respectable address before his first paycheck goes in and he can transform the pretence into reality.

He has access to books, photocopiers, records, and most importantly, small talk between professionals. After six months, he begins making discrete inquiries. In the evenings, he compiles his notes and sorts through papers until late, and then sits near the window with a glass of Scotch and plans his next move. Sometimes he reads. This is both an indulgence and an education.

He's been worried. He wrote a short cryptic letter to his father, but there's been no reply, and he wonders if he should risk phoning again. He knows he'll do it anyway.

He enjoys the job, it's mentally stimulating and even challenging sometimes, and he knows he does good work. It rankles him that he can never perform as well as he could, but he doesn't want to draw too much attention to himself. The job, the lifestyle, the inquiries are enough.

He hides his file in a cavity under the glossy floor boards, and also begins stashing away some money.

There's dangers, of course, but his passport and papers are meticulous – he's figured it out now – and he's very careful. He smiles at women socially, and even takes a few out to dinner, but he never lets himself get too involved.

It's a knife-edge, but it's somehow a more satisfying life. He feels like he's making progress. But he's still thinking about the question of 'progress to where'.

Finally, one night, he realizes that progress involves actual movement. And that without even consciously realising it, the current of the river he's floating on is only flowing in one direction.

Back to the US. Inexorably.

The awareness brings a dramatic feeling of relief. A lightening of mood – and a sort of gambler's euphoria. He feels almost at ease now with the risks he's about to take. He's betting on long odds, but he's done the math. The rewards could be huge…

He begins siphoning information from different sources – reports of ongoing investigations in Germany, names and dates and witness sitings, army transcripts, photos; basically anything he can get his hands on legitimately. Then starts the delicate work – using other peoples' names, other peoples' phone extensions, collecting a bunch of useless files to glean the one piece of paper with value, asking here, inquiring there…

He connects with people in Copenhagen who can help with papers. He thinks very hard about where he could be, where he _wants_ to be, when he re-enters the US. His Copenhagen contacts tell him he's crazy. He just smiles into the phone. He's done the math.

It all takes about eighteen months to put together. But when he's finished he can finally start calling the big bluffs.

He phones his father and finds out why he never got a reply – heart attack. It distresses him to think that he's been one of the stressors, but he tries to sound upbeat. He wonders if he'll get to see his father again before he dies.

It lends the next few weeks a sense of urgency. And it gives him the balls to do something completely illegal – he raids a series of computer files, and then dons his best suit to play a lawyer collecting information from Interpol sources. It's not until he gets out of the offices and is walking away, hailing a cab, that he touches his shirt under the jacket and realizes he's drenched with sweat.

He reminds himself that he'll need to build up his nerve.

The papers arrive. He's about to try calling home again when he thinks a few things out hard one night over a slowly-warming Scotch glass. This is his last chance to try and put things right – he'll never be in such a position again. Once he enters the US and his new life begins, he'll be as camouflaged and anonymous as it's possible to be.

Which is why he spends a few days trailing around behind a female Interpol detective, before taking that quixotic step onto her train at – station.

He'd tried to be polite and brief, and thinks that he largely succeeded. It's just the look in her eyes that spooks him. That determination. The stubbornness. The steel. And he knows straight away that while meeting Lien might have been the honourable thing to do, it won't make one iota's worth of difference to his case. In fact, it was probably a mistake. She'll chew through the reports, duly investigate the leads he gave her, but the trail always comes back to him, and she'll discount any other tenuous connections because she's seen him now, she almost _had_ him –

He knows it'll bug the hell out of her.

It was a mistake.

He remembers his papers and bank accounts and reassures himself that he's leaving soon.

Everything has started snowballing, and the urgency becomes real. One of the secretaries queries him about some extraneous paperwork. Within twenty-four hours he's tendered his resignation, on personal and health reasons. He begins making arrangements for his lease and belongings. Bank accounts he can do on the phone. He starts growing a beard again, then waits until the last possible moment to call his father.

It's the morning before his evening flight, and he takes his bag with him to the payphone near an alfresco dining place – different phones, different locations, as usual. But the voice that answers isn't his father's.

"Excuse me, sir, but Mr Boromin is unable to receive your call."

"I'm…I'm sorry to hear that. Is he unwell, or should I…"

"I'm sorry to inform you that Mr Boromin passed away late last night."

There's a loud ringing in his ears and he closes his eyes to quell the din. He finds himself leaning against the perspex partition on the side of the open booth. It takes him a minute to realise that the valet on the other end of the line, at the other end of the world, is still talking.

"…apologise for giving you such bad news. Are you a professional acquaintance, sir? Sir?"

He opens his eyes, but it's like white noise on the television – obscured, hard to see. It takes a few blinks to recover.

"I'm…I'm…"

The urge to puff out those two incriminating syllables is so strong that he has to bite down on his own tongue. Then the valet's voice sounds again, tentative.

"Sir…excuse me, sir, but am I speaking to Mr Leherman?"

He gasps out a breath, and nods before remembering he has to reply.

"Yes. Yes."

The man becomes succinct.

"Mr Leherman, I've been supplied with strict instructions regarding your business interests with Mr Boromin."

Gellen remembers suddenly that his father's valet is called Stefan, that he comes from Kiev, and has been with Nikolai for twelve years. He nods into the phone again.

"Yes?"

"Mr Leherman, you are to go to the – branch of the Swiss National Bank. The account number is zero, zero, six, one, seven, three –"

"Wait –"

He scrambles for a pen and writes the numbers and the short stream of instructions on his hand. There is a key and a public railway station involved. Finally, the valet's terse communication concludes.

"This is our final transaction, sir."

Gellen understands that the man has completed his instructions, but will no longer be involved.

"Of course."

"I trust your future business ventures will be a success, sir."

"Thank you." Gellen appreciates the subtle good luck message.

"And, sir…my deepest apologies."

"Thank you," he whispers, then hangs up the phone. He walks over to the al fresco seating area and finds a chair, then aimlessly stirs an excellent latte until it goes cold.

Then he goes to the bank. Sitting at another café near the bank entrance, reading the letters his father sent him through intermediaries, he glances up through a haze - in time to see Sandrine Lien and two plain-clothes officers walk into Swiss National through the glass doors.

He leaves change on the table, gets a taxi to the specified railway station. Collects his package from the public deposit box area, and uses the phone to rearrange his flight details. He leaves from Bern, in two hours time.

****

Interrogation room 

Alex watches Bobby's enormous hand rub over his face, scratch through his whiskers. His eyes are closed – when he opens them, it's to look at the tabletop, at the floor.

"I feel like I've been talking for a hundred years."

Alex nods, not willing to speak herself. She feels exhausted. She needs a drink. The excess of information is pressing on her brain, but there's still so many questions. She's very conscious of the time they've already spent in the room, and how much time they might have left – and she has a terrible fear that she'll walk outside the jail and all the myriad details and feelings that Bobby has bestowed on her will suddenly break up, lose their moorings and spin away like thin spidery threads. How relevant all this is to his case – and how insubstantial, compared to the gross weight of physical evidence.

She swallows and tries not to let anxiety hurry her along.

"You knew…you knew you were going to become a cop before you even left Europe."

Bobby nods. "Yes."

"That's a pretty nifty disguise."

He shrugs, acknowledging ten years of successful math.

"Sometimes the best place to hide…"

"…is right under people's noses."

Alex grins slowly, can't help herself. He meets her eyes and then they're both grinning like idiots - until the abrupt clang of the warning knock at the door makes Alex jump. Her face flattens. Not enough time.

"Where do I start?"

He knew, he must have known, by the time he started revealing so much of his history, that she had already committed herself. But his expression still wars with itself for a second before he takes a breath and entrusts her, wholly, with his life.

"Germany – the investigating officers, the witness, any other physical or photo evidence from the scene. All the information from the first murder – whatever hasn't been lost or destroyed."

Alex is thinking so fast it feels like there's some giant machine switched on in her head.

"Can I lift the body?"

Bobby raises his eyebrows at her determination.

"You can try. I was never in a position to get that close."

The door behind Alex opens and two guards step into the heightened tension. One of them lifts the shackles.

"Time's up, folks. Gotta get ready to go, if you don't mind."

Alex scrambles to her feet, with Bobby casting urgent glances back and forth from her to the guards.

"Goren – what else?"

"You have to find Metcalfe –" His face contorts as the bracelets snap on. "Contact the army – old boys' network stuff, records of past-served. And Duncan – that's Mitchell Henry – former private –"

The second guard collects Goren's presents, and they begin walking him to the door. Six feet. Four. Goren is talking over the guard's shoulder.

"Try the base CO – Armstrong, Lawrence J. –"

Alex is trying to keep step. She doesn't want to lose eye contact. She gasps with a memory.

"Bobby – your file!"

One of the guards turns to exclude her from the group.

"Excuse me, Officer, but we gotta get going…"

Goren is looking at her in a way that makes her hold her breath, and in the instant before he's taken out the door the lack of physical contact becomes unbearable. Alex shoulders forward to reach past the guard and grab Bobby around the neck. She's on tiptoes. For the briefest second, their cheeks are pressed close. She can feel his stubble, his breath on her ear, and then she hears the rumble of his whisper.

"Thank you for the Coetzee. It's my favourite."

The guard's hand on her arm is the only thing that makes her let go. She watches the door clang shut through blurry vision, wipes away the tears angrily with one hand as she goes back for her jacket – then thinks that maybe the tears are worth it. The one concrete thing she can offer in return, in the face of all that her partner has given away.

Then she thinks about what he _said_.

**__**

Author's note: Thanks for your on-going patience. Now I'm on holidays, I might have a chance to get more written… catch up soon.


End file.
